


No first or last in forever

by ArandoraStar



Series: The awful daring of a moment's surrender [4]
Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Anal Play, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Attempted Murder, Blood and Gore, Blow Jobs, Canon-Typical Violence, Cock Sucking, Cunnilingus, Depression, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Fluff and Smut, Gratuitous Smut, Kidnapping, Love Confessions, Multi, Psychological Torture, Rescue Missions, Rimming, Romance, Sex, Shameless Smut, Smut, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Suicidal Thoughts, Torture, Vaginal Fingering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-28
Updated: 2016-12-21
Packaged: 2018-09-02 19:02:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 20,292
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8679751
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArandoraStar/pseuds/ArandoraStar
Summary: Grace and Deacon head to Goodneighbor, only they don't make it unscathed. Or, Deacon gets kidnapped and Grace hires a mercenary to help her get him back.





	1. I have no life but this

**Author's Note:**

> Title of story and chapter and the poem Grace recites at the end are by Emily Dickinson.
> 
> This is literally 90% smut.
> 
> There is a plot in this series eventually, I swear.

“That was fun,” Grace says, turning to smile at Deacon.

He grins back, his teeth almost blinding against the grime on his face, and kisses her quickly. “You’re always so adorable when you murder things.”

She laughs and rolls her eyes fondly. “Yeah, yeah, Prince Charming. Go check and see if you can’t repair those turrets. I’m gonna radio Preston and let him know our settlers are good to move back in.”

“Aye aye, Captain. That’s how it goes, right?”

“Dork. Go.”

Deacon swaggers away and Grace can’t help but watch him. He’s ridiculous and charming and completely _hers._ She’s been absolutely intoxicated by him since she first laid eyes on him her first day at HQ. It was in the way he moved, smiled, spoke. His very presence drew her in almost instantly. He was so confident, so hard to read, and so witty.

Grace has always adored men with a sharp wit. Verbal foreplay gets her going almost faster than the real stuff, and boy oh boy, does Deacon’s mouth work wonders on her body. He likes to read aloud to her whenever they’re alone. He’s a fan of Proust and Tolstoy, and she of Dickinson and Whitman. (His adoration of literature and history makes her feel all kinds of tingly.)

He’s so suited for her it seems unreal most days. Perfect in an imperfect kind of way. There’s an energy between them that flows so naturally, so smoothly, even through the challenges of the day to day, that she’s sometimes taken aback; halted in her constant thoughts of forward– survival, settlements, synths, and him, always him –; frozen with the fear that this may all be a dream. But then he’s there smiling or snarking, with something so real and alive in his eyes as he watches her, that she knows she isn’t creative enough to imagine this.

She knows he has self-doubts. She knew that before he ever confessed his own fraudulent beliefs. She sees it in the brief moments of hesitation in his responses and touches. He thinks himself unworthy, and nothing could be further from the truth. He, out of everyone, is worth _everything_.

She fiddles with the dial on her pipboy, adjusting the frequency. She holds down a button and says, “Hailing Sanctuary.”

“This is Sanctuary,” a scratchy voice replies a moment later.

“This is General Hawthorne, reporting in.”

“Good evening, General. Please relay your message.”

“Hangman’s Alley is all clear and defenses are being reinforced. Settlers are good to start moving back in.”

“Confirm message, General. Settlers may return to Hangman’s Alley.”

“Confirmed.”

“Thank you, General.”

Grace lowers her pipboy and looks over to see Deacon bent over a turret. She grins and moves over to him. She bends over quickly and gives him a quick kiss on the cheek. He smiles, and she can see his eyes crinkle up behind his sunglasses from where she stands at his side.

“How’s it look?” she asks.

“Not good, boss. I think we’re going to have to put her down. She was a good turret. Such a shame.”

“You have no idea what you’re looking at, do you?”

“I’ll have you know I have a degree in turret repair and this baby is done for,” he replies, standing to face her, hands on his hips.

“You are so full of shit. I’ll have Nate stop by on his way back from Quincy.”

Deacon grins toothily and her heart clenches. “Sending Fixer to fix things again? What has this world come to?”

“I can’t decide if your sarcasm makes me want to punch you or kiss you.”

“I’ll take option two, please. Now, and then later without clothes. Or now without clothes is good too.”

“Insatiable,” she whispers with an adoring smile. She steps up close to him and he smiles back, placing his hands on her hips.

“Easy to please,” he retorts.

She leans up and kisses him softly, running a hand from his stomach, which clenches deliciously at the contact, up across his ridiculously toned chest, to the back of his neck. (Seriously? When does he have time to work out?) She runs her fingers over the soft, ginger fuzz of the back of his head, scratching lightly, and he moans in the back of his throat. She smiles into the kiss and pulls away.

“Come on. If we leave now, we can make it to Goodneighbor before dark.”

Deacon’s lips twitch as he fights a frown. “Thought we were going back to HQ.”

“I owe John a visit. Plus, it’s closer.”

“HQ is like ten minutes from Goodneighbor.”

“Fine. I want to fuck you and that can’t happen at HQ. It’s too quiet. Everyone would hear.”

Deacon grins wickedly and Grace knows this is about to escalate quickly. It always does with them. “I dunno, sugar. We’ve yet to face a challenge we couldn’t beat.”

Grace blushes as an image of Deacon holding a hand over her mouth to quiet her screams while fucking her against the wall in one of the tunnels at HQ comes to mind. Deacon notices the flush on her cheeks and steps close to her, only a hairs breadth away.

“I know you can be a good girl for me and keep quiet while I take care of you,” he whispers, his voice low and rough. Her breathing picks up. “Worst case, I’m sure we can find something to occupy that pretty mouth when it gets too loud? What do you think, Charmer? Worth the risk?”

Her eyes are lidded and her breathing shallow. How does he do this to her? Fuck. It’s like he opens his mouth and she’s dripping wet and ready to go _right fucking now_.

“Yeah. You’d like that, wouldn’t you, sugar?” he continues, moving even closer and running the tips of his fingers up both arms. Goosebumps break out across her skin in their wake. “Letting me shove my dick down your throat at HQ, where anyone could walk in on us. Bet you wouldn’t even stop. Would just keep going like no one was there.”

Her eyes flutter closed for a brief second before snapping open and zeroing in on him with laser focus. She reaches out and pulls his sunglasses off, nearly sighing at the sight of his vibrant blue eyes dripping in desire. She folds the arms in and walks her fingers down his chest to the front of his jeans, delicately pushing his glasses into one of his pockets.

“I wouldn’t stop,” she replies back breathily, running her hand back up his chest. His breath catches as he realizes it’s her turn to tease. “I’d keep worshipping your cock until you couldn’t stand. I wouldn’t stop until you came in my mouth, and even then, I’d probably still keep going.”

Her hand slides up to his throat, clenching just slightly. His pupils widen and his breathing shallows. He reaches up to hold her hand there.

“I wouldn’t stop, because I’d want everyone to know just how well I treat you, and how much you love it. I wouldn’t stop, because I want them all to know _you’re mine._ ”

“Fuck,” is all he manages to say before he’s pulled her into his arms and slammed his mouth onto hers. Her legs wrap around his waist like a vice and her hands grip his face almost viciously. His hands find their way down to her ass and he squeezes hard.

“Where can we…” he pulls away to ask before licking down her throat. She moans.

“Over there,” she replies, gesturing towards the cabin on stilts to the left of them.

“Hold on, sugar,” Deacon mutters into her mouth before stumbling quickly up the stairs and into the shack.

There’s a tiny, framed bed in one corner, which he none too gently deposits her on. She bounces lightly on the mattress and reaches desperately for the front of his jeans. Deacon practically tears his shirt off while she undoes his pants, pulling them down and moaning at the sight of his already half-hard cock bobbing free of them.

“Fuck. I love it when you go commando,” she comments, wrapping her hand around his dick and pumping gently.

Deacon groans loudly, his head falling backwards. “One less thing to take off when we’re out on a mission and you inevitably jump me.”

“Me?” she asks incredulously, reaching with her other hand to massage his balls. “This one is all on you.”

He lowers his head to send her a naughty grin. “Sugar, you know I’m a bad boy. You’re supposed to be the adult in this relationship. Know when to say no.”

Her responding grin is equally naughty. “I’ll never say no to you, baby.”

And then she’s licking him from base to tip, sucking his swollen head into her mouth and running her tongue up his slit.

“Fuuccckkk,” Deacon drawls out, his eyes riveted to her mouth on his cock.

Her crystal eyes flit up to his and hold his burning stare. He reaches out to tangle his fingers in her hair as she bobs her head once, taking him in shallowly before pulling out again. She runs her tongue all the way down the underside of his cock to his sack before sucking it into her mouth. Her tongue lolls around one of his balls before letting it pop out of her mouth and moving back up his shaft.

“Love your mouth,” Deacon says breathily, his eyes glued to her lips as they suck on the head of his dick. “Fucking love it.”

She pulls away with a smile, her hand still pumping him steadily. “Yeah? What else do you love?” she asks, before diving back in and bobbing her mouth up and down his cock, her gaze sticking to his.

His lips pull into a smirk and the hand at the back of her neck tightens its grip on her hair. “Love your ass. Love the way it looks wrapped in leather, or that fucking sin suit you met the world with. Get hard just looking at you bent over a table going over trade routes and mission reports. Love, ah – fuck, love your tits. Fit my hands perfectly. And your legs – the way they wrap around me. Your hands, so small. So dangerous. _Yesss_ – don’t stop. And your eyes. Shit, baby, your eyes. So fucking pretty. You’re so fucking pretty. Beautiful. Oh fuck. Prettiest, most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. Oh my God. Are you…fuck. Babe, _how?”_

She’s got her nose pressed into his pubes and his dick as far down her throat as it can go. There’s always a moment of panic right before she does this where she feels like she can’t breath and her eyes water in pain, but she just breathes in deeply through her nose and pushes past it. And _God_. The way he looks at her when she’s got him all the way down her throat is worth every bit of effort put into this.

“I still don’t understand how you do this,” he says, his voice an octave higher than usual and his gaze riveted to the sight in front of him. His legs quiver and threaten to give out from beneath him and he has to catch his balance on her shoulders. She sends him an amused look, her hands rubbing soothing lines up and down his thighs. “So, so talented. So many talents. Oh God.”

She loves doing this to him; loves how wrecked he gets at the sight of her blowing him. The first time she did this was a few days after their first escapade on the roof of the Mass Fusion building. She had practically assaulted him as soon as they made it to the empty Railroad safehouse, yanking his pants down and falling to his knees like she’d been dreaming of doing this to him her whole life. (It hadn’t been that long, but definitely since the first time he quoted Wilde to her.) He came so quickly it embarrassed him and he stuttered out apologies and blushed so hard it made her fall in love with him a little more.

It was also the first time she realized he was a redhead. She remembers thinking his cock was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen – long, thick, and swollen – easily the largest penis she had ever seen (not that there had been that many), and framed by unruly ginger curls. She was immediately obsessed with those curls, totally in love with finding out he was a ginger. She begged him for weeks after that to start growing out his hair. He finally gave in.

She swallows around him and he whines shrilly.

“Oh my God. Grace, baby, please. I’m going to come and I want to be inside you. Gotta fuck you, baby girl.”

Grace relaxes her throat and pulls back, letting his dick, wet with her saliva, bob up to hit his stomach. She bites her swollen lip and runs her hands up his crazy defined stomach.

“I love your body,” she says reverently, her throat scratchy from use and her eyes riveted to the hard lines of his abs and chest.

He groans and grabs her hands, kissing each of her palms before bending down and kissing her. “And I love yours. And it’s covered, which is a fucking shame because I honestly believe you should be naked all the time.”

She laughs as he kicks his pants away from his feet and reaches down to help her pull her tank top over her head. “That seems pretty impractical.”

“Clothes are impractical,” he replies, licking his lips at the sight of her naked chest. She forewent underwear as well that morning. “Imagine how much time we waste taking them off. We could probably fuck twice as much if we didn’t wear them.”

She grins as he gets on his knees between her legs. “You say that now. But then you’d catch one of the guys eying me and you’d get over it real fast.”

Deacon frowns and a contemplative look comes over his face. “You’re right. We’ll get you one of those dresses nuns used to wear. It’ll cover up everything, but give me easy access when I need to slip between your thighs,” he says, squeezing the appendages in question.

Grace slaps his arm playfully. “Easy access? Are you fucking kidding me? I could play harder to get if you want.”

“No, thank you,” Deacon replies in a sing-song voice, reaching up to yank down her pants. He sends her a delicious grin at the sight of her lack of underwear. “Fucking love it when you go commando, babe,” he coos, mimicking her.

She laughs and kicks the pants from her ankles, grabbing the back of his neck and pulling him in for a sloppy kiss. “So confident,” she whispers against his lips, “when just a second ago you were whimpering and begging to fuck me.” She licks across his mouth and pulls away from him, leaning back on her hands and sending him a cocky look.

Deacon sends her a grin and grabs her behind the knees, yanking her to the edge of the bed. “Let me repay the favor,” he says, deep and dark and so delicious.

Grace bites her lip and spreads her legs slowly for him. They haven’t done this before and she’s a little shy. Her eyes flutter shut and then open a second later when he doesn’t move. His gaze is positively _wicked_.

“On second thought,” he says, before grabbing her by the hips and flipping her so fast she doesn’t have time to catch herself and falls face first into the mattress, “I think I’d prefer you like this.”

He lifts her by her hips onto her hands and knees. Grace whimpers at his manhandling.

“Yeah. I like this view a lot,” he continues, using both hands to spread her cheeks. “Fuck, sugar. All of you is beautiful.”

His hands massage her ass cheeks for a moment before he trails one finger from the top of her crack all the way down to her pussy. She hisses when it glides over her soaked slit.

Deacon whistles long and slow. “You are positively dripping, darling. So ready for me. You love screwing my dick down your throat so far you can’t breath, don’t you? Makes you wet for me.”

Grace moans, clenching in pleasure at his voice and the feel of his breath puffing inches away from her cunt.

“God. Just look at you. I could seriously stare at your pussy all day, sugar. Fucking beautiful like the rest of you. Bet it’s just as sweet too.”

“Deacon,” Grace whines breathily.

“Yeah, baby girl?”

“I love your mouth so much. But please fucking put it to use before I shoot you.”

Deacon chuckles and blows a stream of air from her clit all the way to her asshole. She shivers in delight, moaning obscenely.

“As the lady wishes,” he says, before following the previous trail with his tongue. He moves back down to her clit and flicks his tongue rapidly over it. One of his hands keeps her cheeks spread while the other makes its way down to her slit, where he teases one finger around her opening. She’s so wet that he slides it in without any effort, curling it sharply and looking for her sweet spot.

“Oh God,” Grace moans out. There’s something stupidly erotic about feeling Deacon’s face shoved between her cheeks. She’s glad she’s facing away from him, because there’s no way she’d be brave enough to watch him do this. There’s no way she could honestly last more than a second watching him eat her out. Fuck. When he told her he was good, _he fucking meant it_.

He pulls away and she hears a sucking noise behind her. She looks over her shoulder to see him pulling his finger out of his mouth. His eyes are so dark she can barely make out the blue of his iris.

“Knew you’d be sweet, sugar.” His voice is raspy and low. “Can feel my teeth rotting already.”

Grace laughs and shakes her hips in his face. His gaze flits back to her pussy and his eyes light in desire. “Get back to it, hotshot. We don’t have all day.”

He’s back in place not a second later, licking into her pussy and pumping his tongue in and out of her. He makes an absolutely _obscene_ slurping sound as he sucks her folds into his mouth, and it’s so dirty, Grace almost comes from the sounds alone.

“Fuck,” she groans.

Deacon trails his tongue back down to her clit and trails his tongue languidly over it. He works two fingers back into her and curls them repeatedly, scratching a spot inside of her that has her vision going white.

“Oh fuck, Dee. That’s so good.”

He picks up his pace, his tongue moving in tandem with his fingers. She’s practically fucking herself onto his face, the way her hips move. She can’t control it at this point, so fucking gone in him that all her sense has left her. He pulls away and breathes in sharply, his fingers still working rapidly inside her.

“Fuck, sugar. I could drown in your pussy and die a happy man.”

She moans and he stands up to lean over her, pulling his fingers from her cunt and kissing a trail down her spine and back to her ass. He spreads her wide and runs his tongue in a circle around her tight hole, before licking back down to her pussy. He laps at her a few times and she’s gone, coming so hard she can’t see and screaming his name in a way that has the shack around them practically shaking.

“Deacon! Fuck! Yes, yes, yes!”

Deacon pulls away and stands over her, placing a kiss on her lower back, before spreading her a little wider. He takes his cock in hand and runs it down her crack to her engorged slit. She moans lewdly and arches back into him. He slips inside her shallowly before pulling back out.

“So greedy,” he says, panting and unable to look away from the sight of her swaying hips in front of him. He presses back into her slightly.

“Need you so bad,” she murmurs back brokenly.

He quits teasing her and pushes slowly into her slick heat until his dick has completely disappeared inside her. There’s hardly any resistance, her orgasm having slicked her up perfectly for him. She moans in relief at the feel of him inside her.

“Fuck, beautiful,” he whispers, moving his legs on either side of her feet, which hang just over the side of the bed. She’s at the perfect height for him to thrust into her without bending over. He grabs at her hips and pulls out before pulling her back onto him.

He picks up his pace, pumping into her and marveling at the bouncing of her ass cheeks every time he rams into her. Fuck if that isn’t one of the most beautiful things he’s ever seen. Her pussy makes an obscenely wet sound every time he glides back into her that causes his balls to clench desperately. He wants to come so bad, but she’s gotta go again. Fuck. He wants to feel her come on his cock.

“You look so good like this, sweetheart,” he says, bending over to kiss the middle of her spine. “So beautiful.”

She sends him an adoring look over her shoulder and he smiles. He reaches around and caresses her throat gently before pulling her slightly towards him. He bends down and kisses her, sucking on her bottom lip and biting it gently. She moans into his mouth and thrusts back into him desperately, reaching up to wrap an arm around the back of his neck and keeping his mouth on hers.

The angle is sharp, her back arched in a way that makes him think he might break it at the speed they’re going. But she doesn’t complain. Quite the opposite. Her mouth drops open against his and a whine pours from the back of her throat.

“Don’t stop. Oh God. Deacon. Don’t stop,” she begs.

He fucks her harder. “I’ve got you, sugar.”

The sound in her throat pitches higher and she’s getting louder.

“Right there. Don’t stop…don’t. Oh God. Oh God. Deacon, Deacon, Deacon,” she chants his name like a prayer as she comes harder than she ever has in her entire life. Her entire body shakes with her orgasm and she collapses onto her face, one of her legs slipping to the ground next to Deacon’s to keep her up at the right angle for him to keep fucking her through it. But even that doesn’t help her, because her leg quivers so much she can’t stand straight.

“Oh fuck. My leg, Deacon,” she gasps. There are tears running down her face and she can barely breathe.

“I’ve got you. I’ve got you,” he murmurs, rubbing her ass and back lovingly. He grips her hips gently and pulls out, pushing her further onto the bed before climbing on after her. He moves her until she’s laying flat on her stomach and places sweet kisses from her sweaty neck down to the middle of her back.

“Deacon,” she whispers, her cheek pressed against the mattress. “Please. Want you to come inside me.”

Deacon smiles against her back. “And you say I’m the insatiable one.”

He wraps an arm under her, lifting her hips slightly off the bed and moving his legs to straddle her own. He uses his free hand to guide himself back inside her. The angle is tighter and he moans deeply at the sensation.

“You feel so good, Charms,” he groans into her skin. “So good.”

“Mmm. Say my name.”

“Grace, my Grace,” he murmurs, nearly gone. He’s so close it burns. The familiar sensation of his own orgasm tickles at his lower back while he slowly rolls his hips into hers. She’s warm and wet and tight from her previous orgasms and it doesn’t take him long before he’s shoving his dick as far in her as he can reach from this angle and coming deeply inside her. He groans out his orgasm against her neck and she arches up into him as though to take more of it.

He chuckles against her throat, placing a kiss there. “If you want more, you’re going to have to give me a few minutes or hours or days. Not sure I can move for a while.”

“I want it all,” she slurs.

He rolls his softening dick inside her twice more, leaning up and watching the movement greedily, before gently moving off of her and collapsing on his back beside her.

“Not sure how it keeps getting better,” she says, her eyes closed and her words muffled against the mattress and the exhaustion taking over her.

Deacon turns to look at her, his eyes softening at the sleepy look on her face. He rolls onto his side and runs his hand up and down her back.

“I told you I was good,” is all he manages to say, even though the only thing on his mind is the absolutely gorgeous orgasm she had just before going completely boneless.

“So good. So fucking good, Deacon,” she whispers back.

He leans over and kisses her head. “Get some sleep. I’ll set up some defenses and we can leave in the morning.”

She doesn’t need any more encouragement after that. She’s asleep before he pulls his pants on. He watches her fondly for a few seconds before making his way around the settlement, setting up mines and chaining the settlement doors. It’s just starting to get dark, so Deacon figures the settlers won’t be returning until morning.

He gathers their packs from the ground near the back of the settlement and returns to the little shack where Grace is sleeping. He pulls out a can of water and chugs half of it before setting the can next to the bed. She’ll want some when she wakes in the middle of the night. Woman can’t sleep more than a few hours at a time without needing water.

He sits on the floor and leans against the bed, pulling her gun into his lap. He meticulously takes it apart and cleans it thoroughly, making sure each piece slides perfectly back into place and is greased properly. Her gun jammed once when they were faced down by a mutant suicider and he had almost been too far away from her to handle the situation. She almost didn’t make it. He hasn’t taken chances with her weapons since.

He repeats the notions with the rest of their weapons. It’s a calming practice, one that settles his nerves when he’s feeling overwhelmed by all these new emotions, and one that allows him a distraction to rapid fire thoughts.

Fixer – Nate – was the only one who knew about the evolvement of their relationship, which probably meant that Piper also knew. (There’s a waterfall effect here that Deacon knows is likely to have occurred – Nate tells Piper. Piper, in her excitement (because according to Grace she has been desperate for her to find her soulmates) tells Nick and Preston. Nick tells no one because he’s not a gossip. Preston tells Mama Murphy - who probably claims she already saw this coming. Mama Murphy then tells a few other people in Sanctuary, all of who gossip about the news, which is how it makes its way to Danse’s ear. Danse gets drunk because he’s always had a raging boner for Grace (Deacon has no proof of this but is like 99% positive its true. That, or the man is just fucking hung and Deacon only pays attention to the bulge when Grace is near the former Paladin). Hancock, visiting Sanctuary, –likely to see Grace who hasn’t made time to visit him recently – finds Danse drunk at the local bar and discovers the news from him. Hancock then gets shitfaced as well – because why the hell not – and he and Danse make bad decisions together. Well, maybe not that last bit. But Deacon entertains the thought long enough for it to make him shudder.)

Nate wasn’t exactly pleased by the news, but the pointed glares he loves sending Deacon seem to have lessened in number. His looks have become more discerning, which Deacon isn’t sure he prefers. Deacon is almost positive Fixer toes the line between being happy for his sister and wanting to castrate Deacon on a daily basis now that he knows Deacon’s true name is printed on her left wrist. His only response to Grace when she told him about their soulmate marks was a snort and a sarcastic, “makes sense.” Deacon wasn’t sure what to make of it then, and that hasn’t changed now. He makes sure to keep Grace between him and her brother anytime they’re in the same room for his own safety. Fixer has about four inches and thirty pounds on Deacon, and he’s not willing to tempt fate and put himself in a situation where the man finally takes his frustration out on him. His only saving grace _is_ Grace and her ability to tame her twin.

It was only a few weeks ago that they took down the Institute. Seems like he and Grace have been together forever, but in reality, it’s only been seven months since they first met and three weeks since they found out they were soulmates. It’s unbelievable how drastically his life changed the second she walked into it, a killer smile on her face and revenge in her eyes. He’s never known rapture like her and he’ll never know any other as long as she lives.

He’s tried not to think about the other red name printed below his, but his insecurities creep into his mind more often than not. He wonders if the fates were fucking with him when they printed that second name on her wrist; wonders if it was a big ‘fuck you’ to him, a reminder that he isn’t worthy of her, that he isn’t enough and never will be. She deserves more than some broken, lying man. He can’t be enough for her because there’s hardly anything left of himself to give to someone so divine.

She’s the definition of altruism, a damn saint if he ever saw one. She and her brother had done more for the Commonwealth in the span of merely a year than anyone living or dead had managed to do since the war. He doesn’t deserve her and he’s reminded of that every day they’re together.

But he’ll never leave her. He’s not selfish enough to do so. He’d follow her even if she sent him away, lurking in the shadows where he belongs and watching her life unfold from the sidelines. He can’t let her go – ever. Because she’s his, even though she’s someone else’s too. She’s the only thing he has in the world and he’ll never, never let her go.

He’s still not totally convinced that she won’t toss him to the curb. It’s what he deserves, after all. He can’t deserve any of what she’s given him. Not after the things he’s done. There’s a chance that once she meets her other mark, she’ll realize just how unworthy of her Deacon is and will ask him to leave like should have seven months ago.

Deacon sighs and rubs a hand over his face. They’ll go to Goodneighbor tomorrow, where he knows her other mark – he can’t even say his name – hangs around looking for jobs. The kid can usually be found at the Third Rail. He knows because he’s had an eye on him for a while now – before he even knew the kid was Grace’s other mark. Anyone who leaves the Gunners and manages to stay alive is someone worth keeping an eye on. He even considered recruiting him at one point, when, while in disguise, he got the kid drunk and asked him why he left the Gunners. His response was unexpected and meaningful, and Deacon thought he might have a decent shot in the Railroad. And then the kid took a job the next day that ended with two civilians dead and Deacon was over it.

He feels indignation creep up his spine. If he doesn’t deserve Grace, that fucking kid doesn’t either. He’s a goddamn mercenary for fucks sake; kills people for money if asked to do so and offered the right price. There’s no way in hell that skinny little shit is worthy of Grace. Deacon’s neck feels hot and he scowls at nothing in particular. Of all the people in the world the fates chose to saddle him up with when it came to Grace, it had to be the fucking mouthy mercenary.

Fingers on the back of his neck startle him from his thoughts.

“Dee,” she murmurs softly, “come back to bed.”

Her presence is like a balm – soothing and gentle. She can coax him into anything with a single look. He stands up and crawls into bed beside her, pushing her gently towards the wall so he can take the outside of the bed in case any one manages to creep up on them in the night.

They face each other, breathing the same air. She stares sleepily into his eyes, reaching up to caress his cheek so softly he might cry.

“There is no first or last in Forever – It is Centre, there, all the time,” she murmurs gently, profoundly.

He exhales shakily and grabs her hand, pressing his lips to it. Her eyes flutter closed and she sighs.

“I have no life but this,” she continues sleepily, “to lead it here; nor any death, but lest dispelled from there; nor ties to Earth to come, nor action new, except through this extent – the realm of you.”

His heart aches and he breathes in sharply. There’s a sob forming in his chest that shouldn’t be there. This shouldn’t shatter him, but it does, and so beautifully too.

Her hand moves to tug on his shoulder and he moves closer obligingly. She tucks her face into his throat and kisses him there. He shivers and holds her tighter to him.

“I love you,” she says quietly. And of all the things she’s ever told him, nothing has ever sounded so beautiful.


	2. Not with a bang, but a whimper

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Deacon and Charmer are ambushed. Charmer goes down and Deacon believes he's lost everything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prepare for angst.
> 
> "This is how the world ends. Not with a bang, but a whimper." - T.S. Elliot

A gentle hand caressing his face is what he falls asleep to, and what he wakes to the next morning. He feels her press a sweet kiss to his forehead and he can’t resist the turn of his lips at the gesture. He rolls over and opens his eyes to see her knelt beside the bed, already dressed for the day.

She smiles when she sees his eyes. “Good morning, handsome.”

“Mmm. This is so domestic. Would be better with a good morning kiss though,” he replies, puckering his lips and making a smooching noise.

She rolls her eyes and pecks him, quickly dodging his hands when they reach for her. He pouts.

“Don’t give me that look. I let you distract me last night.”

Deacon grins. “You love my distractions.”

“I do. But you have morning breath and we’ve got places to be.”

His grin turns salacious. “I’d call it ‘Charmer’ breath since the last thing I ate before bed last night was you.”

Grace flushes. “Stop it. We have to make it to HQ at some point this week, and I really owe John a visit since I missed our last poker date.”

Deacon flops onto his back and groans. “Five more minutes.”

“No. I made breakfast. Get up.”

“Not hungry. Had a big meal last night.”

“Jesus Christ. Get out of bed, Deacon.”

“I don’t wanna.”

“You’re acting like five year old.”

“Um, rude. Considering all the favors I did for you last night.”

“You can consider those the last favors I allow you to give me for a very long time if you don’t get your ass up now.”

Deacon pops out of bed with more energy than even Grace has at the moment. He snatches his t-shirt off the ground near his feet and throws it on before slipping his sunglasses onto his face.

“Ready to go when you are, partner.”

Grace rolls her eyes and exits the little shack, Deacon a few steps behind her. She leads him over to the little campfire in the center of the settlement, where he sees their packs and weapons organized and ready to go.

She picks a plate up off the table next to the fire and shoves it in his direction. “Here. Eat.”

She moves back over to their supplies and throws on a flannel shirt from her pack that she stole from Tom the last time they were at HQ. He has about a hundred of them crammed into a storage trunk behind his workstation. He’d probably still get pissed if he knew she took it, but she’ll just make it up to him by bringing him some old world gadget he can tinker with and turn into some insane weapon.

“Ready to go, boss,” Deacon says, walking over to their supplies and tossing a pack over his shoulder. “Nice shirt.”

“It’s chilly,” Grace replies as they make their way out of the settlement.

“Winter is coming.”

Grace turns to look at him. “…Do you even know what that’s from?”

“Maybe.”

“Did those books survive? Because if they did and you’re holding out on me, I’m going to be super pissed.”

“I’m not sure what you are talking about…OW! What was that for?”

“For being selfish. How many books are you hiding from me?”

“I’m not hiding any.” He dodges another swipe. “And if I was, you’d never know because you don’t treat my books the way they deserve to be treated, you book mauler.”

“What does that even mean?”

“You fold the pages!”

“How else am I supposed to remember what page I’m on?”

“Use a leaf! Or a piece of paper.”

“And _your_ books? Seriously? I’m pretty sure over half of _your_ books _I_ found for you.”

“False. You’ve given me a lot, but not half. Ow! Stop that!”

“You are holding out on me!”

“I’ll never confess.”

“Fine. But just so you know, I found this beautiful, unabridged copy of all of Wordsworth’s poems and I’ll _not_ be sharing it with you.”

“What?!”

“That’s right. I was going to gift it to you, but now that I know you’re hiding novels from me, I shan’t share it.”

“But Babe…” Deacon whines.

“Nope. Though, speaking of books, I wanted to run an idea by you.”

“Me too. I was thinking of starting a series of erotic stories based on our adventures. Big D and Charmer take on a deathclaw – naked.”

“That might be the best idea you’ve ever had.”

“Right? Think I can convince Piper to print them in her newspaper? She could have a monthly special – Publick Occurrences: The Naughty Edition.”

“She’d be a fool not to. The only thing missing in the lives of the people of the Commonwealth is some Grade A porn.”

Deacon grins and knocks shoulders with Grace as they amble slowly down the riverside street. They’re a lot more alert than they look. Lying isn’t Deacon’s only superpower. He’s also quite adept at noticing just about everything going on around him at any point. Grace may be one big, beautiful distraction, but even she doesn’t stop him from paying attention to their surroundings. And just because the streets of the Commonwealth are being cleaned up by the Brotherhood and her Minutemen doesn’t mean there’s no reason for caution. The only thing constant in this world is danger.

“What was your idea?” Deacon asks.

“Well, it’s nothing nearly as impressive as yours, but I was thinking about building a library at Sanctuary.”

Deacon gasps. “And risk exposing our precious books to the filth of the Commonwealth?”

Grace rolls her eyes. “Don’t be dramatic. It’d be good for our settlers. “

“But my books…”

“Deserve to be read by more than just you. Best thing we can do for the Commonwealth is spread some knowledge.”

“Second best. First would be to provide them with decent booze. But I get what you’re saying.”

“I just want to make sure that our children can grow up in a world where they have access to any type of education they want. If they want to be a farmer or a doctor or an engineer, then they should have access to the materials needed to become the best of any one of those.”

“Our children?” Deacon asks quietly.

Grace blushes. “Oh, um. I wasn’t, I didn’t mean like _our_ children. I mean, that too. But, uh. Just the children of the Commonwealth in general. I mean, I would – but I wasn’t being presumptuous or anything.”

It’s a thought he hasn’t allowed himself to consider since Barbara. He’d never really wanted kids; thought the world they lived in was too dangerous for them. But Barbara had always wanted a big family and he could never deny her anything. So, they had tried and tried and tried, and she could never get pregnant. It had been absolutely devastating to her after years of trying with no success. She considered herself broken, and nothing Deacon ever said to her fixed that notion in her head. ‘ _Maybe I’m the broken one, sweetheart.’ ‘No. It’s me. I can feel it.’_

After she died, he struck the thought from his head. He struck all notions considering family and love from his head. No need to fill himself with a hope he would never deserve.

And then Grace happened. She stormed into his life and knocked silly any notion he ever had of distancing himself emotionally from everyone for the rest of his life. She made him reconsider his relationship with everyone – people he had only ever considered acquaintances started seeming more like friends; his fellow Railroad agents started feeling more like family. In less time than it takes to breathe, she became the best friend he had ever had, someone he broke all of his rules for. He loved her before he ever knew her name was printed on his wrist. He’d never truly appreciated the concept of soulmarks until he discovered she was his. He couldn’t understand how the universe could possibly know who was meant for him. After Grace, everything made sense.

So, no. The idea of having kids with Grace hadn’t crossed his mind. Until now. He knows that she wasn’t alluding to any expectations she has in what she said. She truly did care for all children and wanted to provide a rich and safe future for them. Hell, all the people of the Commonwealth might as well be considered her children. She provides for them, takes care of them, fights for them. She risks her life everyday to make the world safer and brighter for everyone in it. If that isn’t the mark of a mother, then Deacon doesn’t know what is.

Yeah. Now that he thinks about it, she’d be an absolutely amazing mother. He’d bet everything he doesn’t have that she’d be the best mom the Commonwealth had ever seen. And that thought sets off a thousand images in his mind – her smiling, belly round with his child; her chasing after a curly haired boy with his eyes and her hair with a ginger haired baby on her hip; him teaching his son how to hunt and shoot and track and walk without making noise; their kids growing up and taking over the Minutemen and the Railroad in place of their aging parents; and Deacon and Grace – old, and grey, and happy.

His heart is racing as the thoughts pour through his mind. His hands tremble and he blinks rapidly behind the shades on his face. Jesus. He can’t think of anything he wants more than that future with her.

She’s still stammering out an apology next to him, face flushed darkly. It’s easily the goddamn cutest thing he’s ever seen. It’s moments like these that honestly surprise him the most. He didn’t think it was possible to fall anymore in love with her, but here he is – stumbling just a little bit further. His heart swells with warmth and he can’t fight the absolutely adoring smile that creeps across his face.

He reaches out and grasps her arm gently, pulling her to a stop. She won’t look at him, so he forces her to turn and face him fully.

“Charms, Grace,” he says quietly, tilting his head to try and catch her eye, “I can’t think of anything in the world I’d rather do than wrangle mini Deacons’ and Charmers’ with you.”

She looks at him shyly. “Yeah?”

“Well, we’ve wrestled deathclaws, yao guais, and supermutants and defeated the boogeyman. I feel like the next big adventure would be figuring out how to outsmart our own offspring.”

She fails to hide the grin breaking across her face. “Sounds dangerous.”

“Danger’s my middle name.”

She takes a step closer to him, her eyes shining and her smile wide. “Oh yeah? And what’s your last name?”

“Hawthorne has a nice ring to it,” he replies, leaning in close to her.

“Always pegged you for a feminist,” she says, her lips brushing his.

“I’m a man of the people and for the titties,” he says in a serious voice.

Grace cracks up and drops her forehead onto his chest, her shoulders shaking with her quiet laughter. Deacon’s grin threatens to break his face as he wraps his arms around her trembling form. She hugs him back tightly.

She presses a kiss on his chest and pulls back to look up at him. She’s close enough that she can just barely make out the shape of his eyes through the dark lenses of his glasses.

“I love you,” she confesses with a smile.

His grin turns into a smirk. “I know.”

She bites her lip and gazes at him with such fondness that he can’t help himself. He’s just opening his mouth to say it back when a crack rings out in the silence around them and a searing pain shoots through his leg. Her eyes widen in terror only inches from him and there isn’t even enough time for him to collapse when another shot echoes out and she’s falling with him.

“Fuck!” he shouts, clambering to crawl over her.

“Don’t you dare!” she hisses, trying to keep him from shielding her.

He ignores her. “Shots came from the south. Get behind that truck.”

They fumble over one another and move as quickly as they can to take cover behind the overturned tracker trailer in the middle of the street. Shots continue to ring out around them, missing sometimes only by inches.

“Where were you shot?” he asks frantically, turning to inspect her as soon as they’re hidden safe from the gunfire.

“Got me in the thigh,” she responds with a hiss. “Fuck! I always forget how bad getting shot hurts until it happens. What about you?”

“Calf. Went through clean. I’m fine,” he says without hesitation.

“Pretty sure mine’s still in there,” she says with a grimace.

He scoots close to her and looks over the wound. It’s bad. He can’t dig out the bullet without fear of nicking her artery, and with as much blood pouring out of the wound as is, he isn’t positive that hasn’t already happened. He briefly considers going ahead and stimming her, but knows that it would only close up the wound around the bullet and risk causing a severe infection.

“We need to get you to Carrington immediately,” he says, snatching the pack from his back and pulling out a spare shirt. He uses his knife to shred it into strips and ties them pieces of cloth around her wound as tightly as possible.

Her breath is shaky as she breathes out, reaching for her own pack and pulling out a stimpack. She holds it out to him. “Use this on yourself.”

“That’s our last one. You’re going to need it more.”

“Carrington has plenty and I can’t even use it until the bullet is out. Please do this. For me.”

He huffs but does as she asks. His leg tingles as it begins to heal. “Can you stand?”

He moves to help her stand up, wincing at the pain that shoots through his own leg, but ignoring it in favor of steadying her. She gasps in pain as she places weight on her hurt leg. He wraps one of her arms around his shoulder and supports most of her weight.

“I’ve got you,” he murmurs. “Let’s get out of here before whoever shot at us shows up.”

They don’t make it ten feet before two heavily armed men rush them with melee weapons. Deacon scrambles to get the rifle strapped to his back and accidentally knocks Grace to the ground. She gasps in pain and fumbles for her own weapon.

It seems to happen in slow motion for Deacon. He manages to whip his rifle around in time to shoot one of the men in the head. He crumbles to the ground dead, and Deacon turns to shoot the second man, only to realize there are more men coming from all sides. A shot fired from his left by Grace catches the rushing man in the leg. He stumbles forward, but is close enough to swing his tire iron at Deacon’s face. Deacon dodges the weapon, but the man rams his chest with his shoulder and Deacon trips, falling backwards.

Another shot catches the man in the head and he collapses dead weight onto the Railroad spy. Deacon shoves him off and sits up, turning to aim at the man approaching Grace from behind. He falls dead and Deacon is aiming at another.

It’s then that he realizes these men are Gunners. He’s been in fights before where he was convinced he was going to die, but he’s never been this terrified before. There’s a puddle of blood under Grace that grows by the second and her hands are shaking so bad that she hasn’t landed more than a few hits on the men attacking them. If he doesn’t get her to a doctor within the hour, she’s going to bleed to death. He should have used that fucking stimpack on her, not him.

The fight is over almost as soon as it begins. There are too many men, and Grace is too injured from the surprise attack to assist Deacon in defending themselves. A man neither of them noticed approaches Deacon from behind and hits him in the back of the head with the butt of his gun; hard enough to disorient him, but not enough to knock him out. He hits the ground hard, his vision blurred, his ears ringing, and the world spinning. He can vaguely hear Grace’s anguished cry and turns to see one of the gunners snatch her by the hair and drag her into a standing position. Her pants leg is almost completely soaked in blood at this point.

“Leave her alone,” Deacon slurs, trying to sit up. A foot on his back presses him face down into the pavement. The men surrounding them laugh gleefully at his struggle.

“Not so fast, jackass,” a voice growls out above him. “Move another inch and we kill the bitch.”

His eyes are riveted to Grace, who looks back at him in horror. The gunner behind her wears a deadly smirk, one of his arms wrapped around her stomach, holding her up, and the other clutching her hair in a vice like grip, holding her head at sharp, painful looking angle. Her throat is exposed to him and he sends Deacon a wicked grin as bends down to lick a line from the base of her throat to her chin. Grace whimpers in terror and struggles against the man’s grip, kicking his shin painfully with her good leg. He yanks her hair harshly and bites her throat in retaliation. She cries out in pain and Deacon can practically feel the phantom bite on his own throat.

He shudders but doesn’t move an inch, too afraid of the consequence of doing so.

“Private!” the man standing above Deacon shouts in reprimand.

The man holding Grace stops his actions and moves his face away from her throat with a scowl on his face.

“You don’t hurt the bitch until I tell you to,” the man growls out again.

“Yes, Commander,” the man replies reluctantly.

“Now then,” the gunner commander says before reaching down and snatching Deacon up by the back of his shirt. Deacon stumbles slightly, but stands still when the man points a gun to his head. He left thigh aches painfully and his brow furrows in confusion at the pain. His injury had been in his calf, not his thigh. “Tell me, are you General Hawthorne of the Minutemen?” he asks him.

“No, he’s…” Grace starts, but is cut off when the man holding her uses the hand tangled in her hair to squeeze her mouth closed painfully.

“Keep that bitch quiet, Private. Now then, as I was saying. Are you the general of the Minutemen, jackass?”

Deacon takes a moment to consider their situation. There’s an extremely high chance that neither of them are going to make it out of this. There is a significantly higher chance that these men are here to either assassinate or kidnap the general of the Minutemen. If it’s to kill, then they’ll kill both of them. Or they might let the other go so they can inform the rest of the Minutemen what happened. If it’s to kidnap the general, then they are likely looking for ransom, and will let the other go so they can take the message back to the Minutemen in order to receive payment. If they lie and say neither of them are the general, then they’ll be killed out of convenience. If he tells them Grace is the general and they’re here to kidnap her, then they’ll take her back to camp and the likelihood of them using her is… No. Not an option. Can’t happen.

“Answer me, asshole!” the commander shouts, knocking him in the head again.

Deacon stumbles forward from the hit before slowly standing back up. He catches Grace’s gaze again. She watches him desperately, pleading with him not to do what she knows he’s about to. _Tell the truth_. _Please tell the truth. Just this once._

His lips turn down in an apologetic frown. _I’m so sorry, sugar. But you know me better than that._

“Yes,” he responds, his voice steady and light. “You’ve caught me. I’m General Hawthorne of the Minutemen.”

“Pretty cocky for a guy with a gun to his head,” the man drawls.

“All in a days work,” Deacon replies.

The commander chuckles and walks around Deacon to face him. Another gunner takes his place behind Deacon, shoving a gun into his back. It’s the first time Deacon has seen his face. His hair is shaved bald except for a black strip down the center of his head and there’s a tattoo in the center of his forehead that reads ‘B+’. His eyes are as black as his hair, but the thing that sticks out the most about his ugly mug is the long, angry red scar that crosses from his forehead, across his left eye, and down to his chin.

The man looks Deacon over in disgust. “Nice shades,” he says before yanking the sunglasses off his head. He puts them on his own face and smirks.

“That your bitch?” he asks casually, nodding his head towards where Grace is still being held by the gunner private.

Deacon doesn’t respond. The commander’s smirk widens.

“She looks like a tasty little thing.” He steps closer to Deacon. “Is she? Tasty?”

Deacon clenches his jaw, but still does not respond.

The commander breathes out heavily through his nose before turning around and walking over to Grace and the gunner private. He looks her over, head to foot, tsking when he notices the wound on her thigh.

“What a shame,” he says, shaking his head. “Usually, we let the spare go to let the others know we’ve got their leader.”

Warning bells shoot off in Deacon’s head and he can feel a dreadful tension creeping up his spine.

“Tell her what you want and she’ll pass it on to my Minutemen,” Deacon says suddenly. “Anything you want. They’ll deliver it.”

The gunner commander turns to Deacon. “She won’t make it a mile.”

“She’s tougher than she looks.” His heart is racing and he can’t take his eyes off Grace, who looks back at him with sudden calm. He shakes his head minutely. _Don’t give up. Don’t think that way._ Her eyes soften and he can practically feel the caress of her gaze as it washes slowly across every feature of his face.

The commander steps as close to Grace as he possibly can without touching her. He leans over and whispers something in her ear, chuckling darkly when he pulls away and she thrashes violently against the man holding her.

He turns and walks back up to Deacon, a smirk plastered on his face. He stands in front of him for a few long seconds.

“Please don’t,” Deacon whispers in his desperation. His heart is liable to beat out of his chest at any moment, and he’s analyzing every possible way he can get out of this without her dying. If he could reach the gun at the commander’s hip fast enough, he could…

“We’ll send your Minutemen a note. Kill the girl,” the commander growls out.

“NO!” Deacon shouts lunging towards the man in front of him. The gunner commander whips him across the face with the butt end of his rifle and it knocks Deacon to the ground. His world moves in slow motion again as the man holding Grace moves around from behind her. Her eyes are riveted to Deacon’s as the man draws his gun. There’s desperation in her gaze that makes his chest ache. Her mouth moves quickly and Deacon can barely make out what she’s saying. _Run. I love you. RUN!_ And then the man points a shotgun at her chest and there’s a loud ringing crack and Grace’s eyes flutter closed as the gunner laughs and kicks her over stone ledge into the river below.

For a moment, Deacon can hear nothing. The silence echoes around him, smothers him, is broken only by a shrill ringing in his ears. And then there’s the most god-awful burning sensation in his chest and his throat is on fire. Sound comes to him slowly and there’s only screaming. He realizes moments before the commander hits him in the head with his gun again that the screaming is coming from himself.

 

Cold water smacking him in the face is what wakes him up. He comes to gasping for air from the shock of cold and from the agonizing pain in his chest. He’s disoriented for a moment, the room around him unfamiliar. He’s tied to a chair in the center of a room. The walls and floors are concrete and the only light in the room comes from a yellow bulb above him.

There’s another chair across from him and he watches blearily as a man in a gunner uniform moves blurrily towards it and sits down. It’s his own vision that’s foggy, and between that and the ringing in his ears and the headache forming between his eyes, he realizes he has a concussion.

He doesn’t remember how he got here – fights with his memory to recall any tidbit of information. The last thing he remembers is climbing into bed with Grace, tangling his limbs with hers, her soft, sleepy voice whispering _I love you_.

“You with me, pal?” the man across from him asks, his voice a rough growl.

Deacon sluggishly lifts his head to observe the man across from him. The angry red line down the middle of his face, the blood type printed on his forehead, his eyes black as night. _Grace._

He gasps in pain as it comes back to him. The pain in his chest makes sense now. No. No. No. Grace. Oh God. _Grace._

“I thought it was real lucky we stumbled across the two of you. Kinda figured the general of the Minutemen would be a little tougher to take on. Won’t lie, I’m still disappointed you didn’t put up much of a fight.”

The gunner commander watches Deacon with a contemplative look.

“I also figured you’d be pretty smart. I mean, you are the general who retook Quincy, right? Murdered my men and women. The same general who blew up the Institute and brokered a peace agreement with the Brotherhood? You seem kinda stupid to me. Nothing at all like the legend the people of the Commonwealth worship.”

He chuckles. Deacon hardly pays attention to anything the man is saying. All he can think about is the way she looked tumbling over that ledge.

“You wanna know what makes you stupid, General? I’ll tell ya. You fuckin’ think you’re untouchable. And you’re not. What kind of fuckin’ dumbass leader announces their location via radio beacons? What? You think all your enemies are too stupid to hijack that shit? We’ve been fuckin’ keepin’ an eye on all your Minutemen and Brotherhood movements for months. Makes it easier to avoid gettin’ our asses handed to us. Let’s us live to kick your ass another day. I think that makes us real fuckin’ smart.”

He sneers at Deacon’s choked breathing and the wetness on his cheeks.

“What the fuck are you goin’ on about? Man the hell up and quit blubbering like a little pussy.”

“You killed her,” he rasps out, too distraught, too broken at having lost her, to allow the rage that has so often carried him in the past come forward.

“Who? That sweet little thing you were travelin’ with?” the man asks, faking ignorance. The smirk on his face says otherwise. “Nah. I didn’t kill her. Roach did. He’s a nasty little fucker. Probably a good thing I ordered him to off her. Roach has this quirk, ya see. Really likes the ladies. Likes ‘em alive, likes ‘em fighting, likes ‘em dead. Doesn’t matter to him so long as they aren’t willing. He’d ‘a fucked her till she bled to death and kept going if I didn’t keep that nasty asshole on a tight leash.”

“Oh God,” Deacon breathes out. “Oh God.”

“Oh, was she your mark?” The man asks with false sympathy, leaning forward. “That’s tough luck, mate. Truly is. I had one too. She’s dead now, thanks to your _Minutemen._ She wasn’t much to look at. Not like your sweet piece of ass I threw into the river. But she was mine. Hurts like a bitch, don’t it? It starts right here,” he says gesturing towards his chest, “then spreads out to every inch of ya. You must be hurting something _awful_.”

Deacon doesn’t reply, can’t reply. He’s not sure what the gunner is referring to. His entire being is on absolute fire. There’s no way anything can hurt more than the knowledge that he failed her. He can barely breathe, can hardly think of anything other than _she’s gone. She’s gone. She’s gone._

“Yeah. Must suck to be you right now, _General_ ,” the man drawls out.

Deacon is coherent enough to recognize the taunt in the title. He looks up to see the man’s sneering face close to his own.

“Always hated how the universe put marks in such an obvious place. Makes it real easy for your enemies to discover your weakness.”

He leans just the slightest bit closer, lowers his voice as though revealing a secret. “You know, General, your lady might still be alive if you had told the fucking truth.”

And there it is; the dagger that shatters the broken remains of Deacon into nothing more discernible than dust. It’s a truth Deacon accepts in his bones. He’s a fraud, always has been, always will be. And that deceptive nature he’s always had, the same one that he crafted into a weapon, honed into an innate skill, is the reason Grace is dead; the reason the world has once again fallen out from underneath him.

The acceptance of it settles over him like ice, freezing him in place.

The gunner laughs cruelly, leaning back in his chair. “Nah, man. I’m just fuckin’ around with you. I knew who that bitch was the second you said you were the general. Surprised the shit out of me to realize that the savior of the Commonwealth was a fuckin’ woman. But, hell. I’ve seen crazier shit. It’s a goddamn shame I had to kill her. Would have loved to fix her up and have some fun with that pretty face. But I saw an opportunity that I just could not squander. Bitch killed my mark. Figured even if y’all weren’t marks, you were at least fuckin’. ‘S close enough. She took something of mine. So I took something of hers. The look on her face when I told her was going to slice you up and deliver you piece by piece to her Minutemen was _delicious._ ”

“Just go ahead and kill me,” Deacon says, defeated.

“Oh, I’m going to. Don’t worry. Just not yet. Can’t cause a man pain when he’s already in the worst pain the universe has to offer. I’ll wait until the pain of her dying leaves your body, and you’re only left with anguish of knowing your soulmate is dead. And then I’ll start cutting you. No promises though. I might not be so patient in the end.”

Nothing this man can do to him at this point can be any more excruciating than the knowledge that Grace is dead – that she’s dead because of _him._ Nothing. He clings to that promise of death, yearns for it, craves. He remembers this feeling vividly, welcomes it back into himself as though greeting an old friend. He deserves to die. But more importantly, he can’t live in a world where she doesn’t exist.

“Gonna send your Minutemen a note tomorrow. Tell them we’ve got their general.”

“Why?” Deacon asks, his voice hoarse. He doesn’t even care to know the answer.

“Because the Commonwealth belongs to the Gunners,” the man growls. “And once we’ve killed off the last Minuteman, we’re going to blast that fuckin’ tin can out of the goddamn sky.”

Deacon chuckles darkly, the action causing throb of pain to burn through his chest. The man seethes and leans forward again.

“What’s so fuckin’ funny, jackass?”

“Just contemplating the repetitive nature of history.”

His head cracks to the side suddenly. He didn’t see the punch coming, but he wanted it.

“We’re not makin’ any mistakes this time,” the man grits out before standing up. “Enjoy your stay, asshole. We’re gonna get to know each other _real_ good.”

He leaves Deacon alone. A shaky whine pours from his throat the moment the door is closed behind the gunner. His entire body trembles. The pain at the center of his chest is excruciating. _This is what it feels like to have your soul ripped in half._

He’d long for the darkness that saved him from this pain not an hour ago, but to fall unconscious is to stop feeling the very last part of Grace left in this world. This agony, the horrible fire burning across his chest, this is her soul being ripped from this world, from him. He’s been greedy when it came to her since she rose from that vault, and he’ll continue to be so until he finally follows her. He can’t sleep, won’t sleep, because the few remaining days he has left in this wasteland are for her. Tears for her. Rage for her. Memories of her. It’s all he has left.

He doesn’t pay attention to the time. It seems to move rapidly and languidly at the same time. Hours, days, they’re all the same to him. He doesn’t get hungry. He doesn’t get thirty. The only thing he can focus on is what he’s lost. _Grace_ , and that terribly beautiful dream he had for both of them, if only for a minute.

The pain in his chest fades so slowly, he hardly notices, too wrapped up in memories and what could have been. But when it’s finally gone, some days or hours later, all he can do is scream in agony. Because she’s finally gone from him, and he’s lost everything.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the next chapter, we find out what happened to Charmer.


	3. Hour of separation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grace is saved by the Railroad, but has to resort to hiring a mercenary to track down Deacon when they refuse to allow her in on the op.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I took some liberties with the layout of Mass Bay Medical Center. Also, some liberties with the MacCready, Barnes, and Winlock dialogue. 
> 
> Title comes from quote by Kahlil Gibran. "Love knows not its own depth until the hour of separation."

It’s plays over in her mind like a movie – the terror in his expression, the gentle way the gunner whispered his plans in her ear, the mind numbing horror at hearing what he planned to do to her soulmate, and then the crack of the shotgun and the sensation of falling and the most gut wrenching scream she’s ever heard in her life chasing her descent.

Hitting the water is like breaking glass with skin bared. Icy, sharp, cutting. All she knows is cold until the darkness, and then all she knows are nightmares. The terror, the whisper, the crack, the fall, the scream.

 _“Hold on, Charmer. We’re almost there,”_ a voice whispers through the nightmares.

She’s breathing, but it’s hard to do so. She tries to move, to alleviate the tightness in her chest, but can’t. She’s being carried, jostled. But she can’t feel anything but the weight on her chest. It’s getting harder to breathe.

She tries to open her eyes, to see who’s carrying her, to tell them they need to find Deacon. Her eyes flutter and her vision is a mess of watercolors and distorted shapes. All she sees is blue – like his eyes, like her suit. A scarf. Blue.

She welcomes the blackness that reclaims her.

 

_“Get Carrington now!”_

_“What the hell happened?”_

_“…found her like this…shot in the chest...took Deacon.”_

_“…ballistic weave…one of Tom’s…”_

_“…lost an excessive amount of blood…need to send word to Sanctuary…broken sternum…ribs…”_

_“Charmer, can you hear me? Charmer?”_

Grace sucks in a greedy breath and it rattles in her chest. Her eyes shoot open as her heart beats furiously against her aching chest. She groans in pain, her eyes slipping shut for only a second, before opening in a panic. _Deacon._

She attempts to sit up, but the movement causes an excruciating pain to shoot through her chest. She falls back down on the mattress she’s laying on. She looks around, realizing immediately that she’s back at HQ, tucked away behind Carrington’s desk. She’s covered only by her underwear and a thin sheet. Luckily, her pipboy is still attached to her left arm and when she turns it on, she realizes it’s been two days since she and Deacon left Hangman’s Alley.

“Charmer? Shit. You awake?” Tinker Tom asks, pulling Grace’s attention towards him.

He’s peeking around the corner, his headgear slightly askew. His eyes widen when they meet hers and he disappears around the corner.

“Yo! Carrington. Charmer’s awake!”

Multiple footsteps head her way and within seconds, there are two people standing next to her. Carrington kneels down and checks her over gently.

“Deacon,” she asks, her voice cracking as she watches the red headed woman standing above her.

Desdemona shakes her head. “We’ve got Drummer Boy out looking for him now. He was the one who found you. We were hoping you could give us some insight as to what happened.”

Grace’s eyes water and she sniffs. She hardly even feels it when Carrington sticks her with another stimpack.

“Gunner’s got the jump on us. They were looking for me – the General of the Minutemen.”

Carrington huffs as he works on her. He’s never been comfortable with her position as the Minutemen General, believing it impossible for anyone to be efficient while batting for two separate teams, so to speak.

Grace ignores him. “Deacon lied. Told them he was the General. They – fuck, oh God – the commander, he told me they were going to torture him. _Shit._ He knew I was the general and they took him anyway.”

Desdemona’s lips purse into a thin line. There’s a worried crease in her brow. “Did they mention why?”

Grace breath stutters slightly and she shakes her head. “No. He just told me they were going to – that they were going to send pieces of him to my Minutemen.”

Carrington sighs and leans away from her. He tosses an empty stimpack into a pile of other used syringes.

“Was he compromised?” he asks.

Grace sends him a confused look. “Compromised?”

“As an agent of the Railroad. Were they aware of his affiliations?”

“I don’t believe so. I’m pretty sure they just thought he was a high ranking Minuteman.”

“Good. At least we don’t have that to worry about.”

Grace’s mouth opens slightly in surprise and her brow furrows in disbelief. “Are you fucking kidding me?” she hisses, sitting up and ignoring the pain that shoots through her chest. The sheet falls to her waist, but modesty be damned.

Carrington shoots her an annoyed look. “Lay back down before you injure yourself,” he demands. “And, no, Charmer. I am not kidding you. The Institute may be gone, but the Railroad’s job is far from over. We’re on our last legs here with Glory and the other agents who died in the Institute battle gone. We can’t afford for our operation to be compromised.”

“Deacon is in the hands of our enemy, possibly being tortured as we’re speaking, and you’re relieved?”

“Your enemy, _General_ ,” Carrington reminds her. “And yes. I am relieved that this isn’t a result of Railroad business.”

“They have Deacon! This just became fucking Railroad business.”

“Charmer, cool it,” Desdemona commands.

Grace closes her mouth, but keeps her angry glare on the doctor in front of her. He levels an unimpressed stare back at her.

“Carrington, leave the room,” Des says, not looking away from Grace.

Carrington stands obediently, pulling another two syringes from his coat pocket. He hands them over to his leader.

“Two more should start the healing process on her final broken ribs, but she will need bed rest for at least a week to fully heal. And no heavy duty for weeks,” he says clinically. He sends Grace an appraising look. “I know you may not believe so, Charmer, but I do care for Deacon. His capture is…unfortunate. But my primary concern will always rest first with the preservation of the Railroad.”

He leaves without further comment or glance.

Desdemona returns her gaze to Grace. “Drummer Boy has put together a team to find Deacon. We’ll work tirelessly to recover him.”

Grace breaths a sigh of relief and lays back on her mattress.

“Go ahead and give me those stims. I’ve broken ribs out here before. I’ll be good to go by tomorrow.”

Des shakes her head. “Not happening.”

Grace raises an eyebrow. “You’re not going to give me medicine to cure my injuries?”

The red-headed leader rolls her eyes, but tosses the two syringes onto the mattress next to the injured agent.

“That’s not what I meant. I’m not assigning you to the search and recovery team.”

Grace huffs. “I don’t need your permission. This is Minutemen business as much as it is Railroad.”

“I can’t trust that you can remain neutral in this situation.”

“This has nothing to do with _neutrality_. Those gunners tried to assassinate the General of the Minutemen and then took one of my men with the intention to torture him.”

“We’ve already reached out to your second in command and he is aware of your current…predicament. He has assembled a team to come retrieve you from a disclosed location and transport you to your castle. They will finish your medical care there.”

“Are you serious?”

Des ignores her. “We have requested that they leave the search to us, as it is one of our agents who is missing. We will handle the recovery of Deacon and will contact you when we have him.”

“Des, you can’t seriously…”

“It is in our best interest, I believe, that we discontinue your agency with the Railroad. That’s not to say that we don’t wish to keep working closely with the Minutemen. You have been an invaluable asset to our organization, in regards to the transportation and housing of synths. But I no longer believe your singular involvement is necessary to our organization.”

Grace laughs incredulously. “Deacon is missing, potentially out there somewhere _dying_ , and you’re sitting in here, what, _firing me?_ ”

“We’ll not rest until we’ve recovered him – alive or dead.”

“ _That’s not good enough_!” Grace shouts.

Desdemona scrutinizes Grace for a few long seconds.

“I’ve had my suspicions about your relationship with Deacon for a while now. I ignored it out of desperation, believing that doing so was necessary to keep you and your brother on our side in the fight against the Institute. That fight is now won, and we owe the two of you a tremendous amount of gratitude. But both of you are compromised – he by his affiliation with the Brotherhood, and you by your affections – and have been for a while now.”

Grace is quiet in disbelief.

“The Railroad has always had a strict rule against fraternization amongst agents, and for good reason,” Des continues. “It protects our agents, protects us, against weaknesses. We can’t afford any mistakes, now more than ever.”

She’s quiet for a few seconds, her discomfort clear in the tense shape of her shoulders, the crease between her eyes, and the twitching of her left thumb and pointer finger. She’s craving a cigarette, needs something to hold, something to ease the bad taste left in her mouth from the news she’s delivering to one of her favorite agents. Grace can read any person easier than a children’s novel, no matter how well she knows them. Her gaze softens as she watches Desdemona subtly reveal how much she hates having this conversation.

“As I mentioned before, the Railroad is still eager to remain partnered with the Minutemen. If… _when_ Deacon is recovered, he will be given the option to act as a liaison, of sorts,” she says finally.

Grace recognizes it for what it is. A cushion. A compromise. Something to soften the blow. It’s Des’s way of being nice, of taking care of people she’s fond of, while still following protocol.

Grace’s eyes dance across the redhead’s face. The leader is not much older than Grace herself, but she can see the age lines, defined by years of stress and hard work, already on the woman’s face.

“He’s my soulmate,” Grace says quietly.

The surprise on Desdemona’s face is palpable. She assumed a relationship between the two agents, but not of this magnitude. Her surprise is followed quickly by subtle amusement, a lightness in her gaze that had not been there before.

“All the more reason for this change,” she comments, her eyes flicking quickly to Grace’s covered wrist, before returning to her crystal gaze. “I still ask that you refrain from partaking in our search and rescue.”

“You know me well enough to know better than to ask me that,” Grace replies shortly. “And since I’m no longer a Railroad agent, I don’t answer to you.”

“Until your Minutemen pick you up, you are. And I doubt they’re going to allow their fearless leader out of their sight until you are well. The Railroad can handle this op, _General_. I’m asking, as a _friend_ , that you respect this request.”

“Do you have a soulmark, Des?” Grace asks quietly.

The redhead is silent. It’s not necessarily a rude question, just one not asked flippantly.

“Doesn’t matter, I guess,” Grace continues without letting her answer. “It took me over two hundred years to find mine. I do respect you, and I do consider you a friend, a confidant. I trust you. But, if you think I’m going to sit back while my soulmate is in the hands of people who want to hurt him and trust that anyone in the world is better equipped to track him down than myself, then you don’t know me at all.”

A frown flits across the Railroad leader’s face and she raises a brow in annoyance. “It’s for your own good that I ask this of you. But, since you are determined to be difficult in this matter, it seems I’m going to have to waste resources to insure you cannot leave and cause further harm to yourself, or get in the way of my agents who are _fully capable_ of tracking down a missing agent.”

Grace sends her a sarcastic, but charming grin. “Difficult is my middle name, Des. Thought you knew that?”

Des shakes her head and turns to leave the room. “I’ll be back in a moment with your new detail.”

Grace’s grin drops as the redhead leaves the room. She sits up suddenly, ignoring the pain that shoots through her chest. She snatches up the two stimpacks, pulling the cap off of one with her teeth and inserting it directly into the flesh around her ribs. The medicine is cold and stings as it dances its way across her injuries.

She pushes herself to a standing position, swaying only slightly from a brief flash of dizziness. She steadies herself before crossing the room to Carrington’s desk. She picks the lock on a drawer and opens it to find two of his prototype stealthboys and a variety of chems. She grabs both of the prototypes and a handful of stims before shutting the drawer back in place.

She snatches a pair of Carrington’s pants from a trunk shoved in a corner, pulling them on swiftly, before moving to grabbing the flannel shirt they had pried her out of from beside the mattress where she had been laying. She’s dressed in under thirty seconds, the pain from her injuries already slowly ebbing away.

She injects herself with a second stimpack on the opposite side of her ribs before snapping a stealthboy to her wrist and turning it on. She slinks through HQ quietly, past Carrington and Des, who are arguing quietly, and Tom, who watches the fight with his arms crossed and a nervous look on his face. There are only two other agents at HQ at the moment, both distracted by their terminals. It goes unnoticed when she pilfers some ammo and _Deliverer_ from her own desk in the far right corner of the main room. She’s made her way out of HQ in under two minutes, well before Des would send someone to watch over her. Grace has always appreciated being underestimated. It allows her more opportunities like this one.

She runs on adrenaline fueled by anger and worry. She might not be able to move due to the ache in her chest and the dull tightness in her thigh if not for the desperate fear clinging to her mind like a disease. She’s enraged that Deacon was taken from her, and terrified she might not make it to him in time.

Her first destination is Goodneighbor. She knows John will help her in any way she needs without question. She’s also heard rumor that there’s a merc who used to run with gunner’s that hangs around the Third Rail looking for jobs on occasion. He might have insight on where those assholes took her soulmate.

She makes it to Goodneighbor in ten minutes, slipping through the gates unnoticed by the town’s residents. She practically runs to the statehouse doors, pushing through them and jogging on light feet up the spiral staircase to John’s office.

He’s not there, but Fahrenheit is. She’s lounging on one of his couches, flipping through a magazine. She notices Grace enter and raises her eyebrow.

“Hey there stranger,” she greets blandly. “Haven’t seen you around these parts in a while. Figured you’d written us off.”

“Is John here?”

Fahrenheit rolls her eyes, shutting the magazine and tossing it onto the table in front of her, knocking a few chems to the ground.

“What? I don’t even get a hello? Fine then. Hancock took a vacation to your neck of the woods to visit since he _hasn’t seen you in a while_. Wanted to make sure you hadn’t gone and offed yourself with all the dangerous shit you like to get into.”

“ _Fuck!”_ Grace curses. “Look, some gunners took my partner and I need help tracking them down. They’ve had him at least two days now with the promise that they’re going to send pieces of him to the Minutemen.”

Fahrenheit’s sends her a surprised look. “Well, shit. I’d help you, but I can’t exactly leave this place with no one in charge.”

Grace nearly sobs in frustration. “Is there anything you can do?”

“Can hook you up with some armor and gear. Oh. And there’s a merc downstairs that could probably help you out. He charges an arm and a leg, but I’m sure Hancock wouldn’t mind paying for it. Here. Take these caps. Go talk to KL-E-0. Tell her anything you want will be covered by the mayor.”

“Thanks, Fahr,” Grace says softly, accepting the bag of caps tossed to her. “Does John still have one of my suits here?”

The redhead laughs. “Yeah. It’s in the dresser in his room. He was complaining just last week about you leaving all your shit here, but never visitng.”

Grace nods and makes her way across the foyer to Hancocks bedroom. She snatches the new Vault 88 suit she had been gifted ages ago out of his dresser before stripping. She jams another stimpack into her side before pulling the vault suit on. She makes her way back out into the common area.

“Thanks again, Fahrenheit. I’ll make sure John gives you a raise.”

Fahrenheit laughs before sending her a sympathetic look. “Give ‘em hell, sister.”

Grace nods and darts back down the stairs, heading over to Kill or Be Killed. KL-E-0 isn’t too happy with the arrangement, but agrees once Grace expresses her immediacy and promises to come back and spend as much money with the assaultron as possible. She hands over various pieces of armor, a few deadly sharp throwing knives, a modified combat shotgun with two hundred rounds of ammo, and a couple of grenades. She straps everything in place before making her way towards the Third Rail.

Ham tips his hat in greeting to her as she glides past him, not evening stopping to say hello. There’s no time for pleasantries, and she anyone who finds himself or herself offended can fuck off. Nothing matters if Deacon is… The thought isn’t even thinkable to her at the moment.

The Third Rail is bustling. Magnolia is crooning in a corner and there are no empty seats at the bar or any of the couches and tables strewn about. Whitechapel Charlie zips between patrons, handing out drinks and sass. A busy night for the bar, considering John is out of town.

Grace stops at the bottom of the stairs and looks around, her brows furrowed in a determined frown. She moves further in the room, looking for anyone that might look like mercenary material. She passes by a man leaning against the wall drinking by himself. She walks over to him.

“I’m looking a mercenary. Was told he hung around here,” she says, watching him closely.

He scoffs, looking her over quickly before gesturing with his head to a doorway on his right. “Mercs through there, scavver. Might be too late. Some other chumps were looking for him earlier.”

Grace moves past the man without another word, slinking noiselessly into the room labeled as a “VIP.” She can hear muffled voices speaking lowly as she makes her way down the dimly lit hallway. They don’t sound friendly.

“Point is, asshole, if we catch you operating in gunner territory again, we’re gonna skin your twig ass and hang it on our flag pole. Got it, fucker?” one of the voices growls.

“Nah,” another voice drawls. “Don’t think I do, and don’t think I will. So, why don’t you take your girlfriend here and leave while you still can.”

“Are we really listening to this shit?” another voice demands angrily.

“Listen up. The only reason we haven’t filled your body with bullets is because we don’t want a war with Goodneighbor. But you step foot outside these walls for any other reason besides running back to the Capital Wasteland with your tail tucked between your legs like the fucking runt piece of shit you are, then that is going to change real fucking quick.”

Grace comes around the corner in the middle of the man’s threat, and her bloods lights on fire at the sight of two gunners cornering someone.

“You finished?” the cornered man spits.

They don’t have a chance to reply. Grace enters the room silently, drawing _Deliverer,_ and shoots each of them in the head before they can even turn. There’s a muffled _pop_ as the silenced gun fires and the two gunners crumple to the ground like straw dolls.

“What the fuck?!” the mercenary spits, leaping towards a chair where a battered looking rifle leans against the wall near it.

Grace points _Deliverer_ at him before he can reach the weapon and he raises his hands in surrender.

“Shit, lady. What the he…heck?!”

“Are you the mercenary who left the gunners?” she asks calmly, observing the man intently as she moves further into the room. He’s younger than she expected, handsome in a rough and unusual way.

“Uh, yeah. Left ‘em three months ago. Look, lady, are you going to shoot me? I’m not exactly upset about you killing those as…jerks over there. Not gonna turn you in or nothin’.”

Grace rolls her eyes and holsters _Deliverer_. The merc deflates slightly in relief, but his eyes still cut towards his rifle a few feet away.

“Not interested in killing you. I’ve got a job for you,” she says.

The man relaxes more. He cracks a wry grin, his eyes drifting over her form outlined by the blue vault suit with interest. “Well, in that case, let’s talk. That was quite an entrance, by the way. Can’t say I’m not glad you got rid of those jerks. They’ve been giving me hell since I left the gunners. What’s the job?”

“I’m looking for someone. He was taken by gunners.”

His eyes widen slightly in response and Grace notices that they’re blue. Like, _blue_ blue. The color of the sky reflecting off clear ocean waters. “That’s, uh, not good. Do you know where they took him?”

“No. I was hoping you could help me figure that out. He was taken by a man with a big scar on his face. Cuts right down the middle. Puffy, and red. Black mohawk, black eyes.”

“Yeah. I know who you’re talking about. Commander Bones,” he says with a grim expression.

“Do you where he might have taken my friend?” Grace asks, her heart lurching in hope.

“He operates over at Mass Bay Medical. It’s, uh, big. And heavily fortified. Not exactly ideal to storm with just two people.”

Grace snorts. “We won’t be going alone.”

He gives her an appraising look. “Look, if you want my help, price is 250 caps up front. No room for bargaining.”

Grace tosses him the pouch of caps Fahrenheit had given her. He catches it and looks inside. His eyes widen. “Shi…Shoot, Lady. There’s, like, 500 caps in here.”

“Consider it an advance.”

“For what?” he asks, peering over at her with a curious expression.

“Future employment. Grab your gun. We’re leaving now,” she says, ignoring his shocked expression and turning to leave.

He scrambles to grab his pack and rifle before dodging the bodies of the dead gunners and jogging to catch up to her as she makes her way out of the VIP lounge and through the bar.

“So, what exactly did you mean earlier when you said we won’t be going alone?” he asks as they make their way out of the Third Rail.

“I’ve got some friends I’ll be calling in to meet us. We just need to get a head start to beat them there.”

“If you got friends to help take this place down, why even bother hiring me?”

Grace shoots him an impatient look over her shoulder. He’s only a few paces behind her. “Because I’ll need your help to get there and I’m sure we’ll arrive well before my friends do to help.”

“Why do you want to get there before your friends so much? I mean, I’m not opposed to taking down as many fuc…freaking gunners as possible, but it’s not exactly going to be pretty just the two of us barging into one of their biggest strongholds in the Commonwealth.”

“Do you always talk this much?”

“Generally.”

They push through the gates of Goodneighbor and begin making their way through the streets of the Common. Grace feels his intently curious gaze on her back and sighs.

“My friends don’t exactly want me in on this rescue op.”

The merc scoffs. “Why the heck not?”

“Because I may or may not have been shot in the leg and chest two days ago and then pushed into a river where I nearly froze to death.”

“Shi…shoot, Lady. You really are freaking crazy. You seem mostly okay to me though.”

“I’m running on stimpack fumes. Got a few more. I’ll be fine. Besides, I’ve already got a better lead on where to find my friend than they do and they’ve been searching for two days. I just woke up a couple hours ago.”

“You’re something else, boss.”

“That’s what I’m told.”

They quiet down as they sneak by a super mutant camp, pausing every now and then to avoid detection.

“Must be some friend,” the merc comments quietly when it’s safe to talk again.

“Hmm?”

“You’re friend. He must be important if he’s got so many people looking for him.”

“I…uh, yeah. He’s important. To me and a lot of people.”

They don’t speak again until they find themselves hiding in the trees outside of Mass Bay Medical Center.

Grace’s heart beats in her chest, her fury rising at the sight of a few scattered gunners patrolling the building. She notices the merc rubbing his chest with a frown on his face.

“You okay?” she asks quietly.

He looks at her out of the corner of his eye, dropping his hand quickly, as though burnt by her question.

“’M fine,” he mumbles, pausing as though considering whether to elaborate. “Chest has been bothering me for a few days. No idea why.”

She spares a second to be concerned for the man she hardly knows. Facts about heart problems and disease flash through her mind rapidly. She shakes the thoughts away. Later, she tells herself. When Deacon is safe and these bastards are dead. She’ll worry about this stranger later.

“Have you been here before?” she asks him quietly.

He nods. “Once. A while ago. They had me on a caravan route from here to Quincy when it was still under gunner control. Didn’t make it past the fifth floor though.”

Her eyebrows furrow. “How many floors are there?”

“Ten, I think.”

“Do you know how many men they keep here?”

His expression is unsure. “Not too sure, boss. Maybe fifty or so? Used to be more, but they sent a bunch of them down to Quincy when the Minutemen took it back over. None of them came back.”

“Defenses?”

He breathes out heavily. “Dunno. The usual? Nothing fancy. Some turrets on every level, I’m sure.”

“And do you have any idea where they might keep prisoners?”

“No idea, boss,” he tells her with a side glance. “Probably one of the upper floors. I didn’t have clearance to go all the way up.”

She nods and turns her gaze to her pipboy, pulling up her radio frequency and honing in on the castle.

“Hailing Castle. This is General Hawthorne,” she says quietly into the microphone, ignoring the surprised look the merc sends her.

There’s a bit of hushed static before, “General? Is that you?” Preston Gravey responds, worry evident in his voice.

“Preston? What are you doing at the Castle? Never mind. I’m currently sitting outside Mass Bay Medical Center. I’ve recovered information from an anonymous source concerning the location of a mutual friend of ours. I’m going to need you to relay the message to our friends over at the _Station_ that I’ve located our _minister_ and am moving forward with the search.”

The merc continues to watch Grace with wide eyes.

The radio cracks again. “Will do, General,” Preston replies, pausing for a second. “Are you, um, are you okay? We heard from our mutual friends yesterday, but received word from a group of gunners today that they had you in custody.”

Grace pauses, her heart racing at the news. “I’m fine, Preston. Could use some help, if you want to send it my way.”

“Of course, General,” he replies with determination. “I’ll have troops at your location within the hour. I’ll also relay your message to our mutual friends. I assume they’ll be arriving sooner than we will.”

“Thank you, Preston,” Grace says with genuine affection. “I’ll see you soon.”

She turns the radio off on her pipboy and turns to look at her wide eyed companion. He swallows thickly.

“You, ah, didn’t mention that you were the General of the Minutemen,” he comments.

“Didn’t come up,” she mumbles in response. She eyes the rifle in his hands carefully.

“You any good with that thing?”

He laughs, and it sends a pleased jolt through her. She blinks in surprise.

“Best in the Commonwealth. Probably should have thought to ask that before you hired me to take down these jerks, boss.”

She blushes unexpectedly. “I’m not exactly used to hiring mercenaries.”

He eyes her with amusement. “No doubt, boss. All your little helpers probably throw themselves at your feet for free.”

She scowls at him. “Not necessarily.”

He smirks. “So, we gonna do this sometime today, boss?”

She rolls her eyes and looks away. She nods towards the gunners patrolling the building. “You take the guy on the roof. I’ve got the others.”

The merc quirks his eyebrow. “Whatever you say, boss.”

She sends him one last look before making her way out of the cover of the trees on silent feet. She’s deadly like this – when the shadows are low to the ground and night has fallen. The moon is high in the sky, shining light on the ground, but she knows how to be invisible even under the glare of the sun.

She fingers the knives strapped to the tops of each of her legs. There are five. Plenty to take out at least half the gunners in this building. Hopefully, she won’t have to though. Maybe the Railroad agents and her Minutemen will show up in time to help take out a good majority of them.

One of the knives flies through the air silently, driving into one of the gunner’s throat and preventing him front making noise. Grace glides towards him, retrieving the knife and leaving the man to drown in his own blood. Another gunner dies the same way. A distant _pop_ and then the heavy thud of the gunner on the roof falling off and hitting the concrete sounds behind her and she turns to watch the mercenary slink out of the woods and jog her way.

He nods at her and she returns the gesture, before heading towards the entrance of the building. She opens the door and moves into the lobby quietly. There’s no one on guard in this room of the building.

There is a desk immediately in front of her with a lit terminal sitting on it. She moves towards it, hacking it quickly and reading through the floor descriptions.

“Impressive, boss,” the merc mutters, keeping watch on the room around them.

She doesn’t have access to the security measures in place in the building and curses quietly to herself. She shuts the terminal off and backs away.

“Looks like the upper floors were used mostly for R&D and Radiology. Lower floors were patient rooms and surgery. Not a lot of info on the tenth floor, except that it was reserved for top-level clearance employees back in the day.”

The merc sends her a confused look. “Don’t know what any of that means, but I’m going to go out on a limb and say that we’re going to have to make our way through dozens of heavily armed gunners and turrets to the top floor, where your friend is likely being held.”

“Knew you’d be a good hire. Let’s go.”

“You point, I shoot, boss,” he replies.

She grins wryly and leads him towards the unblocked doorway on their right. There isn’t much resistance on the first floor. There are two turrets that the merc takes out quickly and a gunner tripping on psycho violently doing push ups in a bathroom. Grace ends him with a bullet to the head courtesy of _Deliverer._ They check all the rooms on the floor to be safe, but none of them are conducive to holding prisoners.

Grace leads the mercenary towards the stairwell leading up to the second floor. She sends him an approving look at his silent steps, impressed at his ability to walk so quietly.

The second floor appears empty when they first get to it. There’s something ominous about the silence though, and it sets Grace on edge. She holds out her hand, gesturing for the merc behind her to stop moving. He does so immediately.

“Something’s not right,” she whispers.

“ _Scanners detecting sentient life. Alert level elevated.”_

The assaultron comes around the corner just as it finishes speaking, and its red eye focuses intently on the two intruders.

“Assaultron! Take cover!” the merc shouts behind her.

“Shit!” Grace shouts backing quickly into him. He wraps an arm around her and yanks her around the corner behind him. His rifle is up and aimed a second later and he’s firing shots as quickly as he can into the rapidly approaching robot.

Grace pulls a grenade out of her pack and pulls the pin. “Grenade!” she shouts, before throwing the weapon into the hallway. The merc pulls back around the corner and ducks his head just in time for the grenade to go off.

They peer around the corner when the dust has settled and see that the grenade has blown the legs off the assaultron, but it is still moving in their direction, pulling itself along by its clawed arms. The red eye glows fiercely and they move out of the way as the laser beam shoots towards them.

Grace unholsters her shotgun and cocks it. She waits until the laser beam dies down before throwing herself around the corner and unloading round after round into the assaultron’s head until it finally shorts out and dies.

She only has a brief moment of relief before two gunners come around the corner the assaultron had previously, firing shots towards her. She’s yanked out of the path of the bullets once again by her merc. She shoves him off, throwing her shotgun back into its holster on her back and grabbing _Deliverer_.

“No need to thank me,” he snarks.

She sends him an annoyed look before leaning around the corner and shooting one of the gunners in the head. He hits the ground hard, tripping up his companion in the process. The merc takes out the second guy.

Grace turns to her companion, her chest heaving with adrenaline. “Go team,” she says sarcastically.

The merc sends her an unimpressed look. She rolls her eyes in response and heads down the hallway. She peeks around the corner and sees a turret puttering at the end of the hallway on top of a few boxes. Two bullets from _Deliverer_ takes it out.

They follow the hallway along, searching the various exam rooms. Grace gags when, upon unlocking one of the exam rooms, they find the remains of what look to be countless people. Limbs strewn about, some burnt, others rotting. There’s a mannequin in the corner with a man’s severed head in place of the plastic one.

The merc pulls her from the room and slams the door shut, a look of disgust and rage on his face. He takes point and guides them through the rest of the second floor. There’s one other turret they take out that is guarding a medical room. They find the body of a man in a Minutemen uniform in the main lobby of the second floor. Grace doesn’t recognize him, but her jaw clenches in anger at the sight of her fallen brethren. Her gaze hardens and she moves determinedly towards the staircase.

There are no gunners on the third floor. The floor is mostly in ruins, due to a collapsed ceiling. There is a baby carriage in one of the hallways with a tiny skeleton inside it. There’s an adult skull in place of that of a baby’s, and it makes the merc behind her grunt in disgust.

“Savages,” he mutters, and she agrees with him.

There are a lot more gunners on the fourth floor. Grace is so enraged, both by the horrors she’s encountered in this building and the gut wrenching fear deep in her chest that they might have done something horrible to her soulmate, that she tears through the men ruthlessly.

It’s bloody, much bloodier than her normal style. She wishes several times that she hadn’t left her sword back in Sanctuary, but her new knives serve her well. She doesn’t even bother with a gun on this floor. She meticulously makes her way through, slitting throats and jamming her knives deep in eye sockets and bellies.

She doesn’t bother looking to the merc to see his reaction to her onslaught. She’s paid him well enough to keep his mouth closed, though she doubts he will once she’s calmed down and he doesn’t need to fear for his life for speaking out.

When the last gunner falls, she’s painted red and her anger is nowhere near abated. She turns to the merc, who watches her intently with a grim expression.

“Fifth floor will be most populated,” he grunts, averting his eyes. “That’s where most of them sleep.”

She nods in acceptance and collects her knives, only returning with four. One having been lost in the bloodbath. She pulls out _Deliverer_ and moves steadily towards the stairwell. She hasn’t even noticed the pain of her injuries since she entered this building. Her adrenaline keeps her moving, though she knows she’ll feel this for days.

Most of the gunners on the fifth floor are sleeping. Grace pulls the merc back into the stairwell. He looks at her curiously.

“We’re wasting time clearing all these floors,” she whispers. “My friends will be arriving any moment now, and they can take out most of these assholes. They’ve got to be keeping Deacon on the top floor. If they’re baiting the Minutemen, they’d want him to be hard to get to.”

“Straight to the top then, boss?” the merc asks.

Grace nods. “Straight to the top.”

They ascend the stairs quickly and quietly. The door to the tenth floor is locked, however, and Grace spends a very long minute trying to pry it open. It clicks open louder than she prefers and the door creaks loudly.

She curses under her breath, pulling her handgun from its holster. This floor is darker than the others, surprisingly enough. There’s the slightest of yellow glows coming from under a door at the end of the hallway directly in front of them.

Grace stands from her crouched position and moves through the doorway slowly, holding her pistol in front of her facing the ground. The hairs on the back of her neck stand on end and an unpleasant feeling creeps across her skin. Her heart beats in her throat as her gaze focuses on the door outlined in yellow at the end of the hallway.

An anguished scream pierces the silence of the floor. Grace’s heart stops. It’s Deacon. She’d know his voice in any language or pitch. She no longer moves with caution. The ground flies beneath her as she tears down the hallway. She doesn’t make it to the door.

She collides with a gunner just as he’s exiting from another doorway off the hallway. It takes both of them by surprise. The gunner recovers quicker, grabbing Grace by the throat and tossing her to the ground. She bounces harshly off of it, wincing at the pain that creaks through her chest. She glances up at the man above her, sees his crazed smile, and recognizes him. _Fuck._ He was at the riverside that day. He fucking shot her!

“ _Shit!_ ” the merc curses behind them when another gunner enters the hallway and runs at him.

A shot is fired, but Grace doesn’t see what happens. The gunner in front of her pulls out a combat knife and lunges for her. She has just enough time to reach up and snatch a hold of the wrist holding the knife, using all of her strength to push it away from her body. Her other hand fights against his free one, blocking the punch he throws at her. His knees fall on either side of her body and she bucks her hips to try and throw him off balance. It doesn’t work.

She struggles violently against him, but is no match for his strength. He escapes her grip and a fist collides with her face, sending her head cracking back into the floor beneath her. She sees stars. Her vision goes white and her ears ring.

Through the dizziness of her vision, she sees yet another gunner exit the side room. This one is also familiar. _Bones._ The red scar stretches tight across his face as he grins down at her. He steps over the two of them, heading towards the room at the end of the hall. He says something over his shoulder to the man holding Grace down. She can’t make out the words, her brain too fuzzy. But the gunner above her must really like what the commander says. His rotten smile is grotesque against his scarred features.

She fights desperately against the drunkenness of her concussion and continues to use all of her strength to hold off the hand holding the knife. All she can think about is Bones walking away from them, moving towards that yellow lined room, a room that holds her soulmate.

She stops fighting with her other arm and reaches desperately for the knives strapped to her hip. Her fingertips barely caress the top of her holster.

“Was real disappointed when the boss wouldn’t let me have ‘ya,” he growls, his eyes twitching and his grin sharklike. “Not sure how yer alive, but I sure am glad to see ya. Gonna have lotsa fun now.”

Grace scowls at the man on top of her and thrashes wildly beneath him.

“Yeah. Gonna really enjoy this.”

His head cracks open in front of her and his warm blood coats her face and fills her mouth. He falls on top of her and she shoves him off, gagging at the taste in her mouth. The merc runs over to her, a worried look on his face. There’s a nice shiner forming over his right eye, already swelling.

He reaches her and pulls her to her feet.

“You okay boss?” he asks, looking her over quickly.

She doesn’t respond, swaying slightly on her feet before moving with singular purpose towards the now slightly ajar door at the end of the hallway. She snatches _Deliverer_ up from its position on the floor as she walks by.

The door slams into the wall with the force of her kick and she wastes little time in aiming her silenced pistol at the head of the scarred gunner commander holding a knife to the throat of her trembling soulmate.

Deacon’s eyes widen at the sight of her. She assesses him quickly, taking in the dried blood on his leg where he had been shot two days ago and the bruising on the side of his face where he had likely been hit at some point. Otherwise, it looks as though no other damage has been done to him.

“Not so fast, General,” Commander Bones demands, tightening his hold on her soulmate. A trickle of red runs across his throat from the blade of the gunners knife and Grace’s lips curl in rage. “Tell your merc to back down.”

Grace hesitates before turning her head slightly and sending a look out of the corner of her eye to the young mercenary beside her. He doesn’t seem happy about it, but lowers his rifle as commanded.

Grace’s eyes are riveted to Deacon, who’s own gaze flicks between her and the merc beside her. His gaze finally rests on her, traces over each part of her as though starved of the image. She shakes her head minutely when his gaze finally catches hers. _Don’t move._

“Good to see you’re willing to cooperate,” Bones continues, grinning at her.

Grace turns her burning gaze on to the gunner. “I’m going to give you one chance to let him go,” she says calmly.

The commander’s smirk widens. “I don’t think you’re in any place to be making demands.”

“I’m not demanding anything. I’m offering you an opportunity, one I highly suggest you take.”

Bones chuckles darkly. “I’m not dying today, _General_.”

Grace opens her mouth to respond, but is interrupted by a crashing sound below them. The sound is quickly accompanied by shouts and gunshots.

Grace grins. “You wanted the Minutemen,” she says. “Here we are.”

There’s a muffled thrumming sound from outside the walls around them. Grace’s brow furrows only slightly in confusion before she schools her features. Should have known Preston would hail her brother. Kiss-ass.

The gunner commander in front of her looks up at the ceiling, his expression quickly morphing from confusion to realization and then anger. His grip tightens on Deacon.

“And the fucking Brotherhood?” he grits out.

“The Railroad is here too,” she says with nonchalance. “I’ve got lots of friends.”

The gunner commander sends her a searching, somewhat disbelieving look. It quickly dissolves into a crazed sort of acceptance. He chuckles, shaking his head.

“I guess I should have known better,” he says mockingly, “thinking I could go up against the famed _General Grace Lee Hawthorne_.”

There’s a sharp inhale from the mercenary next to her, but Grace ignores him in favor of glaring menacingly at the gunner in front of her. He sends her a triumphant smirk.

“Your soulmate here has pretty hands,” he comments, gripping Deacon’s chin in hand and pulling his head backwards, the skin of his throat straining against the sharp blade of the knife. More blood trickles out from the cut on his throat and Grace tenses. “I considered cutting his left off first and sending it to your Minutemen. Thought it might be a consolation gift, what with your name printed there so pretty like.”

Grace’s hands shake beside her, eyes glued to the knife at her soulmate’s throat.

“Hadn’t really started mapping out what other parts I’d cut off and send. Though, now that I think about it, his dick would be most convenient…”

The thrumming of the approaching vertibird increases and there’s a thud on the roof above them. Commander Bones looks up at the ceiling above his head before slowly lowering his head to look at Grace.

“Let him go, and I’ll make it painless,” Grace says calmly.

There’s a moment where she thinks he might do it – might step away from Deacon and accept his fate. His eyes lower and he breathes out slowly and his jaw clenches in acceptance. The hard thuds of power armored feet sound above them and he lifts his black gaze to catch hers under his furrowed brow. But those eyes narrow and his mouth cinches into a snarl and Grace has never been more afraid in her life.

She’s not unaware of the symmetry of this moment. She knows this was reversed just days ago and it was Deacon watching the events play out before him – his soulmate in the hands of the enemy, the inevitability of the situation before him, the attempted murder of his other half. She’s always been a fan of symmetry, of symbolism. But there’s nothing poetic in the way the gunner commander slashes his combat knife across Deacon’s throat.

Grace screams, rushing forward, and Deacon’s eyes widen in fear and pain as blood pours from his throat. Commander Bones pushes his body away from him and draws and hand gun from the holster at his side. He points the gun at Grace, who has just managed to reach Deacon, who has collapsed to the floor, his hands clenched around his own throat, but doesn’t fire. A bullet catches the gunner in the hand, forcing him to drop his weapon, and then the leg. Before he can do anything further, the mercenary rushes forward, slamming the butt of his gun into the man’s face over and over until he finally passes out.

Grace scrambles to Deacon, her hands shaking violently as she snatches every stimpack she has from the pack at her back. There are four, not nearly enough to completely heal this damage. Her eyes catch his own. That beautiful dark blue is almost completely covered by black. His eyes scream a thousand words, a thousands emotions. He’s afraid. He’s relieved. He fucking loves her.

“It’s okay, Dee,” she says quietly. “I’ve got you, love. I’ve got you. You’re not dying today.”

She gently pries one of his hands from his throat. It’s the most horrific thing she’s ever seen. She almost gags at the sight of his throat, something she’s worshipped, adored, tasted every inch of, torn open and gushing that vital red life force. She doesn’t hesitate, and inserts one of the stims to the side of his throat, slowly pressing the medicine into the wound. There’s so much blood. Oh fuck. There’s so much blood. She’s supposed to wait thirty seconds before using another stim, but she can’t bring herself to do so. She applies another on the other side of his throat.

Her eyes drift repeatedly back to his. His gaze never leaves her. She moves quickly, applying another two stims to the front of his throat. It’s as she’s pulling the final needle from his skin that the clunking of power armor fills the room.

“Grace?” a voice asks curiously.

Grace turns to look over her shoulder. “Danse, do you have any stimpacks?” she asks desperately.

The man looks down at Deacon in shock, but nods, reaching into one of the compartments of his armor and passing over two stims. Grace grabs them greedily and continues to work on her soulmate.

“Sentinel Hawthorne should be here momentarily,” the Paladin says, his voice tense and unsure. “There’s a vertibird on the roof. We can, ah, escort you to the nearest doctor.”

Grace sighs in relief when blood slowly stops pouring out of Deacon’s throat and the edges of the gash begin to close. His eyes remain open and focused on her, though glazed over in pain. She reaches for her pack and pulls out a piece of cloth. She wraps it gently around his throat, cradling his head in one of her hands reverently.

She looks back at the Paladin when she’s done. “Can you carry him?” she asks, her voice trembling.

He nods, moving forward to pick up the injured Railroad agent. Grace finally looks over at the mercenary, having forgotten him in her rush to save her soulmate. He watches her with a worried look and a deep frown. Her gaze cuts down to the knocked out gunner on the floor.

“Stay here,” she tells the merc. “Watch him. I’ll send Danse back to retrieve him when I leave.”

“Whatever you say, boss,” the merc replies quietly, as though disappointed by the notion.

“You’re to accompany both of them to the Castle,” she continues. “Your job isn’t over yet, uh…” She pauses, squinting her eyes as though just realizing something. “You know what? I never caught your name.”

The mercenary shifts uncomfortably, his eyes darting between hers and the wall behind her. “Um, yeah. I never really gave it, and you were too, ah, preoccupied to ask.”

She sends him an expectant look.

“You, um, you can call me Bobby.”

“I’m Grace,” she replies.

“I know,” he says, almost too quietly for her to hear.

“I’ll meet you at the Castle in a few days. Make sure no one touches him before I get there.”

“Sure thing, boss.”

“Grace,” she corrects gently, before turning to jog after the Paladin carrying her soulmate.

“Grace,” Robert Joseph MacCready mutters to himself softly, reverently, as familiar with her name as he is his own. It’s no surprise, really. After all, it’s been printed on his left wrist since the day he was born.

 


End file.
